


Where the Elfroot Grows

by Aria_i_Adagio, WordK (Aria_i_Adagio)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Anders (Dragon Age), Bipolar Disorder, Custom Hawke (Dragon Age), Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fugitives, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mental Instability, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, so many regrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/WordK
Summary: Hawke’s father kept a hunting cabin near the edge of the Brecilian Forest.  A place to teach Bethany magic and a place to hide if the Templars ever came too close to Lothering.  It was a good place.  Quiet, sheltered.  If it had survived the Blight it was just what Adrian needed at the moment for him and Anders.  Sanctuary.Previously titled Trigonometry, but I'm running out of bad math puns for chapter titles.
Relationships: Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	1. Sines

**Author's Note:**

> I need more Anders, and Adrian is my idiot son.  
> I also need more Mabari. Her name is Sobaka and yes, she's a she here. No, I wasn't very creative with her name.

Hawke’s father kept a hunting cabin near the edge of the Brecilian Forest. A place to teach Bethany magic and a place to hide if the Templars ever came too close to Lothering. The Reverend Mother was sympathetic to them, and also found a way to casually tip Leandra off. It was a good place. Quiet, sheltered. If it had survived the Blight it was just what Adrian needed at the moment for him and Anders. Sanctuary. 

If anyone asked where the family was headed, Malcolm always told the villagers that they were going to visit an old war buddy of his in South Reach. Loaded backpacks if it was just him and the kids, or a small cart if mother was coming along. Winter had never stopped him. _We need to stay in practice, Bethany. And you too, lads. Andraste knows what kind of fate you'll have to survive. Best be ready to deal with whatever she throws at you._

"Bet you couldn't have predicted this, eh, Dad," Adrian mutters to himself. Templars. Malcolm might have predicted the Templars. Maybe even a Blight. But Carver dying while they tried to run, Kirkwall, the Deep Roads, red lyrium, the Qun - _mother_ \- a Chantry blown to pieces by some combination of alchemy and magic that Adrian still hadn't gotten Anders to fully explain. No. There's no way Malcolm could have predicted all that. Or prepared any of them for it.

“What is it, Hawke?”

“Hmm... Thinking aloud. You’re not the only one allowed to talk to yourself, love.” Adrian thinks twice about the offhanded statement after it passes his lips; he hopes the endearment at the end is enough to take away the possible sting of the words.

He wonders what Malcolm would think of the apostate riding beside him. Malcolm had no love for the Chantry or the Circles, but he had been Andrastrian in a quiet, stubborn way. Anders' belief is similar, in many respects. He believes in Andraste as much as he blasphemes her. Anyone who read even part of his manifesto would know as much. _"Magic is intended to serve mankind, not to rule over him."_ The Templars used magic as an excuse to rule just as much as the Tevinter magisters.

But Malcolm also turned down the merc commanders who occasionally tried to recruit an experienced apostate for a campaign with a shake off his head and the comment that he'd seen too much blood spilt already. He had hurt enough people while running from the Chantry, and after he made his secret pact with the Wardens, he didn't want to hurt anyone else. Just to be left alone with with wife and children. 

A lot of blood spilled in Kirkwall when Anders pushed the simmering tension between the Templars and the Mages into open conflict. And more now, all throughout the south of Thedas.

There’d be more if Sebastian ever caught up with them. Self-righteous, fucking little prick. Hawke had never liked that guy. Even if it had been entertaining to watch Isabela trying to figure out the actual size of the prince’s prick.

And after it all, Isabela had come through for them. Spiriting them across the sea without a single question. 

* * *

It's not much, Anders thinks to himself when they arrive. A little cabin built in the octagonal style that Fereldans enjoy. Trees surround it on three sides, heavy with snow. The southern exposure is overgrown now, but Anders can tell that it was once open to the north to catch as much light and warmth as possible in the winter.

Not much. But it's just as Hawke described it. A small place for things that needed to be hidden, such as Malcolm instructing his daughter on how to use her magic. And likely a very pleasant little place in the warmer months. He wonders if Adrian has ever thought about returning here before - well before he decided to ruin his life on Anders' account.

Hawke exhales in relief and dismounts from his horse. "Thank Andraste, I was worried it hadn't survived the Blight."

"A miracle it did."

"I hope the shed did as well. I don't care for leaving the horses out in this cold." Adrian pats his horse's neck, and it snuffles his hair. "I also don't fancy sleeping in the cabin with them."

Hawke draws one of his blades and begins hacking a path through the overgrown yard. Sobaka follows after him. The mabari dances happily around him. She’s clearly recognized they've arrived at one of her homes. Smart beasts. Even if Anders isn't quite yet convinced they're as smart a good cat. He dismounts and takes the reins of both horses, tying them loosely to a convenient branch. Unnecessary. They were both good steady animals, but he doesn't want to lose the means of a quick escape if an ogre or a lyrium addled templar bursts out of the cabin.

A locking spell on the door of the cabin is unbroken. Bethany's work, Anders supposes, and well done if the spell has lasted this long. It's keyed to recognize Hawke as a rightful occupant and opens under his touch.

"We'll be out of the wind, at least." Adrian unslings the pack from his shoulders. A cloud of dust rises when he drops it on the table. He looks over to the fireplace, then back at Anders and grins - that charming smile Anders would do anything for. Almost anything. There’s wood arranged in it, ready to be lit, and more stacked beside on the hearth. "I forgot. Bethany made Carver and me bring firewood in at the end of our last trip. We both complained about it, of course. Would you?" 

"Of course, love." Anders kneels beside the hearth and holds his hands out over the dry wood stacked there. Calls fire to his fingers. Just enough. Only enough. He's been careful with fire spells since he was a little, since...

Sobaka pads up to the fire, circles around, and settles on the rug, licking her paws clean of the cold snow. Anders rubs his hands together over the flames, trying to get the feeling back into his fingertips while Hawke checks the contents of various cabinets and crates. The state of the cabin is a miracle indeed, even with Bethany's protection spells. Blankets and pillows to go on the cots - and dust seems to be the worst of the damage. 

Adrian steps out a side door. Sobaka lifts her head and whines, but settles back down when Anders scratches her ears. Poor thing is really too old to have been traveling through snow and ice. A few minutes later, Adrian returns with a pleased look on his face. "The shed is still standing, so we've plenty of dry wood for the fire and a place for the horses. I'll bring them watered and rubbed down." He stops beside Anders, touches his shoulder, then his chin, and lifts his face. "Take off your coat and stay awhile. We're safe enough here."

Anders lets the room warm up a bit before stripping off his outermost layer. There are convenient hooks next to the door for coats - and a stand for a staff or two to be stored. An apostate's hideaway, but he can recognize Leandra's touches in the space: framed embroidery on the walls, tasteful carvings on the furniture, a lovely rug that desperately needs to be taken outside and beaten. Family trips here in Hawke's youth must have been as much a pleasant excursion as an occasional necessity.

He jumps when Hawke's arms slip around him from behind. Didn't hear him come back in. "Ugh. We both smell like horse."

Despite his mood, Anders laughs at Adrian's declaration. The smell of wet horse and wet dog is still better than the aroma of Darktown. "Got a bit spoiled in Hightown, love?"

"I wish you would have let me spoil you more." Hawke sets a bucket of water on the floor beside the fire and takes down a large kettle from a hook on the wall. "The well hasn't frozen yet." He pours the water into the kettle and sets it close to the fire. "I'll get a couple more buckets, and we can wash up a bit."

"That'll be nice." It would be. They'd been riding for a week and change. The Deep Roads would have been faster and warmer - Varric's maps showed an entrance near here - but Anders is not desperate enough to face the Deep Roads again. Not after losing control to Justice. Even if Justice was no longer something separate to which he could lose control. At least, not like before. Maybe. He’s not sure. Years now, and Anders still doesn’t completely understand all the implications of that single, badly thought through choice.

He explores the space a bit. There are three cots leaned against a wall and a double bed behind a room divider. A double bed with a down layer on the top. Leandra again. A chest at its foot has protected an ample supply of blankets and pillows from time. Stripping the dusty covers off the bed and replacing them with stale but clean ones from a chest gives him something to do while Hawke hauls in more water.

A simple heating spell to augment the fire's work on the water, and they're both stripped to their skin, scrubbing travel away with soap and towels from a different chest. Anders dunks his head under the water and works lather through his hair. He wishes he had some oil for it. Between the soap and the cold air, it'll dry out, get dull, but he supposes he should just be thankful for an opportunity to get cleaned up.

Adrian towels off, pulls clean trousers from his pack on, and drags a stool over to the fire. He has a comb in one hand and pats his thigh with the other, inviting Anders to sit in the space between his knees. Anders cooperates, draping a blanket around his shoulders, and settling himself on the floor. It'll make Adrian happy, at least.

Hawke manages to comb out his hair with barely a snag. He runs his fingers through it when he's done, and Anders gives in to his clever hands and the magic of a warm, crackling fire in a hearth. Hawke kneads at his shoulders, almost enough to get him to relax, and then his hands are in Anders' hair again, separating it into three sections and plaiting them together.

"It's gotten long, hasn't it?" Anders hadn't seen a mirror in months now. Maybe there's one around here that's been protected by luck and magic. "I should probably cut it."

"I like it." Hawke kisses the top of his head, then pulls Anders back against his chest, tightens the blanket around his shoulders. "Beard could use a trim though."

"Mmm." Anders lets himself sink back into Adrian's embrace. He's right about the beard. It had been strategic while getting out of Kirkwall, and shaving hadn't seemed worth it for the months he was holed up in the Storm Coast, and Hawke was away somewhere, making contact with Varric, getting the news. But Anders' eyelids are starting to feel heavy. Heavier than they have in days. 

Hawke pats his shoulder and drapes the tail end of a braid over his chest. "That can wait. Let's get you to bed."

"Where did you learn to braid hair?"

"I have a little sister, silly. I can make flower crowns too."

"I'd like to see you do that." 

"In the spring, I'll make you as many as you want, my love."

"Every day, maybe?" Anders is tired, and his tongue is loose. "I never really appreciated flowers when I was a boy. Not until all that time I was locked up in the dark." The dark. That has been one of the hardest things, when they were first on the run - being entirely in the dark at night, no fire, no comforting oil lamp burning beside the bed. The moon helped and the stars and Adrian's chest rising and falling, but none of it was quite enough.

Hawke doesn't have a reply for that, he just curls around Anders and holds him tighter. Anders closes his hands over Adrian's. He doesn't deserve this. Not now, not if he ever did.

"I won't let you be locked up again," Hawke says finally. "I promise."

"I know you mean it. But you shouldn't make promises you can't keep."

Hawke sighs heavily in his ear. "You need sleep, my love. It's been days. I know you have trouble when we're on the road."

Anders lets Hawke lead him to bed. It has been days. He'd ask how many, but he isn't entirely sure that he wants to know. Hawke banks the fire before he joins him in bed, but leaves a lamp burning.


	2. Cosines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: brief mention of suicidal ideation

There's not enough forage to keep the horses fed over the next few months, and Hawke really doesn't want to eat them. Selling them will be much kinder. South Reach is an option, but Adrian's favorite. Varric's last message indicated that one of the Dalish clans was camped over the ridge to the east, just inside the Brecilian forest. He’ll take them there, see if he can trade them for other supplies and pack those back in on foot. 

Anders either woke before Hawke or was still awake when he dragged himself out of bed. He has the fire built up and is just staring at the flames and absently rubbing Sobaka’s head. He tenses when Adrian sits down beside him, nudges him with his elbow, and steals the cup of tea he’s holding, then settles back down and leans his head against Hawke’s shoulder. _He's been too quiet these past few days._ Adrian sips the tea. It's weak, an attempt to stretch the scant handful of leaves remaining. Maybe the Dalish will have some sort of tea. Coffee is probably too much to hope for. 

Adrian wraps himself up in as many layers as he can manage and leaves Anders and the mabari curled up next to the fire. Sobaka is getting old these days. The cold isn't good for her bones. And if he leaves her behind, she'll make sure that Anders believes that he's coming back. Even if she has to sit on him and lick his face until he can't help but grin.

Anders still claims that he doesn’t like dogs. _Liar._

Adrian shivers and wraps his scarf tighter around his neck. The cold isn't good for his bones either. He should probably try to trade for a heavier cloak or his ass will freeze off entirely on the way back. It'll be a bit warmer when he gets down from the hills and into the Brecilian forest proper. Varric's information that the Dalish are still using this camp had better be right. Adrian would much rather deal with the Dalish than South Reach, but that requires the elves to be there.

The forest itself isn't a bad place to overwinter. The river water helps to stabilize the temperature, or perhaps there's leftover magic from before Tevinter. Malcolm always warned them to be careful if they cut over the ridge and into the Brecilian Forest proper. There were powers there to be respected. When you see the guardian tree -

_What's a guardian tree, dad?_

_When you see the guardian tree you'll know it. And you'll stop and leave it a little something. Whatever you have with you._

Adrian does know it when he sees it. A massive sprawling oak that reaches up to embrace the sky. He stops and hops off his horse long enough to find an offering for the guardian. Settles on an apple. A little wrinkly, but -

"It'll do, shem." The voice is gruff, but not unfriendly. One of the horses snorts and the speaker laughs in response.

Adrian holds his hands out and stands up slowly. "Hello, is your camp near here?" He turns around keeping each moment deliberate. There are two hunters watching him from the undergrowth. Both have an arrow notched, but their bows are lowered. "I was hoping to trade."

"In the middle of winter." The smaller hunter starts laughing. She tosses her head, and the cloak falls from her face. "Odd time for it."

"It's a bit of an odd time for me.” He feels his face shifting into a smile. Old habit. He’s gotten out of a lot of trouble over the years with a good smile. “Everything’s odd, really. Not just trading."

"Hmm. What do you think?" Her eyes flick to the taller elf next to her. 

"He had enough sense to leave something for the spirit."

"And those poor horses will freeze if we don't take them with us.” She returns the arrow to her quiver, slings her bow back over her back, and sighs dramatically. “I suppose the shem comes too." 

Adrian lets his hands drop to his side with relief and silently thanks his father for the long ago advice.

The elves ride double on the spare horse, who doesn't seem bothered in the least. The smaller hunter does most of the talking. 

"You're running from your own kind, if you're coming to us. Aren’t you?" 

"I'm actually hoping to do a little less running for a bit."

"Bad time of year for running." She tosses him a bit of dried, smoked meat. "Our Keeper will want to talk to you before she'll allow you to trade."

“Of course.” Hawke is agreeable to anything that might involve a fire at this point.

Adrian’s surprised to be introduced to an elven woman who's not much older than he is. He expected an elderly elf, wise from years, like the keeper of Merrill's clan. Keeper Lanaya invites him to sit with her in a surprisingly warm tent beside one of the aravels.

"My hunters tell me that you wish to trade with us."

"Yes. If you'll allow it. Just for basic supplies."

"And what brings you to us?"

"I, um, made an ill-timed start to a hunting trip. I have shelter. A bit short on food that I can't trap or hunt though."

"Don't lie to me." She lifts one eyebrow - not unkindly - and fills two mugs with a steaming beverage. "Go ahead. The truth, if not all of it."

Adrian wraps his hands around one of the mugs - so wonderfully warm - and tries to figure out how little he'll be able to get away with telling her. "I'm trying to stay away from the conflict between the Templars and the Circle Mages."

"But you aren't a mage."

"No, I'm not." He's relieved when she doesn't ask what he is. Honestly, Adrian doesn't have a damned idea what he is now. It's a little disconcerting, even if he never particularly liked being the champion of Kirkwall. Damn Varric.

"You had two horses with you."

"Yes. I was hoping you'd take them in trade. Or as a gift even, I don't have feed for them."

"And you will trade for what you need and carry it back to -?"

"My -" He hesitates for a moment. That's another conversation that hasn't been had. Possibly because Anders hasn't planned on being alive long enough for it to matter. "My lover."

"Who is a mage,” Lanaya states simply and tops up the mug that Adrian has barely taken a sip from.

"Yes. He is."

"And he wishes to be left out of this conflict."

Adrian tries not to choke on the tea. They could hide successfully forever and a day and it wouldn't be true that Anders was left out of the mage rebellion. It would always follow them, no matter if it never reached them. "I can't risk letting the Templars find him." H realizes that he may have said too much and looks down at his fingertips. "I made a promise."

"A promise. One you're willing to walk no small distance through the snow to keep." The Keeper steeples her hands in front of her and touches her chin. "And you knew to leave an offering to the guardian trees. Very well. You may trade against the value of your horses. They'll be a bit of a novelty; the children might enjoy them."

"I have coin too, if you would prefer."

"If your needs somehow exceed the value of your horses, coin will do. Is your lover safe for the time? I would be a poor host to send you back out into the forest in the night."

Adrian swallows hard. He knew this wouldn't be a one day trip. Anders wouldn't expect him back until tomorrow at the earliest, and Sobaka was with him. Still part of him had hoped like so many other times luck ran his way that he'd miraculously make it back tonight. "He'll manage. Thank you, Keeper."

  
  


* * *

Anders doesn't sleep the single night that he's alone. He sets extra wards on the door - not that it will do any good if a Templar with the ability to dispel them shows up - keeps the fire burning in the hearth, tries to read a salacious romance novel that had been left behind, and when that isn't enough to keep him calm, paces the circumference of the cabin until dawn comes. Then he checks the traps Hawke set outside. Two nugs and a squirrel. He skins the squirrel and slices off what little meat there is for Sobaka. Adrian always avoids giving her small bones - doesn’t want to risk her choking on them. Once they're cooked with a bit of the salt pork from their packs, the nugs will make a decent stew. Anders hangs the field dressed bodies on a sharp stick outside the door to drain and stretches the skins over frames that he put together. His father showed him how to do that, when he was little - before Anders became a terrifying monster. Now It's just something to keep his hands busy. _Gave me that, at least, Father._

Part of him hopes that Adrian won't come back. If Adrian doesn't come back, he can give in to the not at all quiet voice instead his head, the one that says that even if he had to do it, it's wrong that he remains alive when so many in Kirkwall are dead.

It was easier when that voice was separate, was Justice mumbling or Isabela thinking hypotheticals through aloud. When he could set it aside as something distinct, something discrete, no matter what he said to others about how he and Justice were one.

Would he have felt Hawke's fingers brush against the back of his neck one last time if Adrian had done the just thing and plunged a knife into his back? 

He explores the cabin loft next. More blankets that he tosses down to beat the dust out of later that day. Some old clothes that Hawke might be able to wear. A couple of spare staves tucked away in a chest, alongside some other rather wicked-looking bladed weapons. Five slender vials of lyrium, glowing faintly even through the silk they were wrapped in. He tucks those carefully back into the chest.

Fishing line and hooks. That was something. There has to be a stream or river nearby, and those axes would easily break a hole through the ice. Fish would be a variation from salted meat and nugs, if they were going to be here for awhile. Even if he had gotten sick of it while he was on the coast. 

Back downstairs, he pillages the cabinets underneath the dry sink. A little box of salt - useful. Some herbs that had crumbled to dust long ago. He tossed those out the front door. They almost looked like ash on the white snow. _And_ a rack with several dusty bottles of wine. 

Justice is no longer separate enough to complain when he digs the cork out of one and drinks. Or Justice wants to feel deadened as much as Anders does.

Anders doesn't feel any better when it kicks in, but at least, everything feels a little more distant once the tip of his nose starts to feel numb. He hums to himself as he finds a lidded pot for the nugs - heavy iron, designed to sit in the fire. Perfect. Those will need time to cook slowly if they’re going to be tender. He slices thin strips of salt pork and lays them over the nugs, adds a bit of water, then a bit of wine, because it can't hurt, can it?

The romance novel is still waiting for him to finish it.

He misses Varric and his ridiculous stories.

* * *

Hawke returns in the evening. He's carrying a heavy pack, loaded down with dried fruits and vegetables, cheese, crispbread, oats, salt. The kinds of things that not even the best magic could preserve for almost a decade. An elderly elven woman had laughed at him when he confessed that he didn't really know how to cook and selected items for him. "That'll do you for about a month and a half, boy, if you've any skill hunting. Come back then, I'll keep account of what you're still owed for the horses."

He paid coin for a few rarer items: a heavier coat and a bear hide cloak to wrap over it. It’s much warmer in Kirkwall and - despite the rain and fog - the Storm Coast isn't as bitter as a winter in Ferelden. Neither he nor Anders are really outfitted to travel in this kind of weather. He hopes that they won't have to. He's still cold underneath the layers. Maybe he did get soft in Kirkwall; he doesn’t remember being this cold when he was a boy.

Anders almost looks surprised when Adrian walks in. He jumps in his chair and drops the book he was holding. Sobaka hops up from the floor and happily jumps at him, licking his chin while he struggles to get the door closed behind him.

"You're back." Anders undoes the clasp holding the cloak around his neck. It falls to the floor with an icy crunch. Anders presses his cheek against Adrian's. "You're back, and you're freezing." He begins undoing the clasp down the front of the coat, slides the coat and the pack together off Adrian's shoulders, strips the gloves off Adrian’s hands and presses his own around Adrian's fingers. "Get over here, sit down. No frostbite on your fingers, that's good."

Adrian lets Anders fuss over him: wrap him up in a blanket, press a mug of something hot into his hands, get his boots off, check that all of his toes are still there and in working order. He's drunk, and not really trying to hide it, eventually satisfying himself that the cold hasn't done any real harm to Adrian and curling up next to him on the floor, head in his lap.

_Anders, Anders, this is more years - so many more than three - of pent up need for affection. Will I ever be able to give you enough?_

Adrian can feel the tips of his fingers again, as he brushes them through Anders' hair. "Did anything happen while I was gone?" There's a question underneath the one he asks aloud. _Did anyone come near?_

"Everything was quiet." 

"Whatever you did with those nugs smells good."

"It's nothing much. Probably needs a bit longer to cook, tough little things. I used a bit of that bottle of wine. Drank some too. Well, a bottle and a bit. That's just getting started, right?" 

"Hmm..." To be fair, for their circle in Kirkwall, that _was_ just getting started. Except for Merrill. That was well under the table for her. Or Aveline, who simply never started. "Good thing I brought back some spirits with me. They didn't have wine."

"I don't think the Dalish elves are nearly as fond of wine as Fenris is."

"If I'd acquired the kind of wine collection Danarius left behind, I'd have been just as fond of it myself." Adrian laughs, then frowns and shakes his head. "Hope he's alright."

"Fenris is a survivor." Anders is slightly more complimentary of Fenris now that everything is over. He'll even say that he regrets how much time he spent bickering with the elf. Their quarrels hadn't ever really been with each other. Pity they hadn’t realized it sooner.

"That's true." Hawke trails his fingers through Anders' hair, then a little lower, under the collar of his shirt to rub the tense muscles in his back. "The Keeper says they're planning to remain at that camp through spring. They're happy enough to sell us supplies."

"Good. And South Reach is the closest human town?"

"Since Lothering never recovered, yes. There were a couple of farming villages a bit closer, but I don't know if they're still there. It's a day and a half on foot to get there though. Father wanted us well away from civilization when he was teaching Bethany anything... Impressive." 

"Wise. Besides, I never liked South Reach. Templars there always seemed to be trying to prove something." 

Adrian pulls the cork from the bottle he's holding and sips the faintly green liquid. "Ooph... That's strong."

Anders gets up on his knees and pushes his hair back from his face. "Let me try." He reaches out, his fingertips touch against Adrian's as he takes the bottle. "Oh very nice. Herbal enough I can pretend it's good for me."

Hawke holds Anders' face in his hands and runs his thumbs over those cheekbones before kissing him. "You said that stew needs some more time, right?"

"I did." Anders' sips from the bottle and sets it aside with a tipsy grin. "Didn't I?"

"Can't imagine how we could pass the time." Hawke stands and takes Anders' hands, dragging him to his feet. 

"No idea whatsoever." Anders' hands find Adrian's hips and pull them against his own. He leans into Adrian and hums a tune, dancing them backward to the bed. 

* * *

"I brought you something."

"Oh?" Anders opens his eyes. He's half-asleep. Dazed from sex and exhausted from not sleeping the night before. Shouldn't fall asleep. The liquid would boil off the nug, and they'd get dry and nasty.

Adrian crawls back under the covers with him. Kisses him. Runs hands that had already gotten cold again over his chest until he's fully awake. Then opens his fingers to reveal a carved wooden ring.

"It's heartwood." 

"It's beautiful." The band is more than beautiful, it's exquisite. Tiny interlocking knots, polished and oiled to a delicate sheen. "Hawke."

"Mmm. Don't refuse me, Anders." Adrian plays with his fingers until he finds one that the ring fits well. He folds Anders' hand in his and kisses his knuckles. "Don't say that you don't deserve me or that I deserve better than you, or any of that nonsense."


	3. Rates of Extraction

Winter turns to spring, and snow turns to mud. And mud plus a mabari turns into mud all over the floor, and at some point, Adrian gives up, apologizes to the ghost of his mother, and settles on only mopping the floor of the cabin only when he can't stand it anymore. Twice daily sweepings will have to do in between.

He also apologizes mentally to Orana and wishes that he knew how to send her a gift of some kind. She _should_ have complained constantly during the rainy seasons in Kirkwall, but he never heard a peep of disapproval or dismay about muddy boots or muddy paws traipsing all over her clean floors.

Anders sleeps less as the sun reappears. He starts taking long walks in the forest, if the weather is anything less than cats and dogs pouring from the sky, and shows back up with arm loads of spring greens. 

“Watch it!" He dumps a pile of greens into a pot. "That’s nettle.”

“You picked nettle?” Adrian glances at Anders’ hands. It looks like he did wear gloves, but there are some nasty red lashes on his forearms that he hadn’t bothered to heal. _Idiot._ Adrian will try to convince him later.

“It’s good once it’s been cooked. The spines break down.” Anders laughs as he puts a kettle of water in the fire to boil. “You think I successfully ran away from the Ferelden Circle that many times and didn’t learn a little bit about what I could and couldn’t eat?”

“But nettles!” Adrian cautiously points to a stack of slender sprouts. “Those?”

“Wild onion. They’ll be good on some fish if you want to go catch some.” 

Some herbs go in a cooking pot. Others Anders hangs from the rafters. A few are transferred to jars with the tail end of a bottle of whiskey. Even with the nettles, Adrian is relieved. Anders is doing something. _Anything._ He slept through more of the winter than could be explained by simply not wanting to leave behind the warmth of the blankets.

Keeper Lanaya smiles and nods when he describes what his lover is up to. “At least it wasn’t rashvine. If you are staying, I have some things you may be interested in. Especially once we move for the season.”

She’s referring to a pack of garden seeds and a selection of tools. Adrian gratefully selects what he doesn’t remember having at the cabin already. Father made them all help with the gardens and the small field of grain he cultivated in Lothering. (No one ever asked too many questions about why crows and other varmints didn’t bother Malcolm’s plantings.) And then asks for her advice on some sort of small gift that a city elf from Tevinter might appreciate. Perhaps Varric would be able to discreetly get the carved charm to Orana. He’d been meaning to send a letter anyway.

* * *

Varric had a contact in South Reach because Varric had contacts everywhere. An elven bookseller with a tie to his publisher. Adrian carefully composed his letter, recruiting Anders to help him make it sound like an over the top piece of fan fawning, and once they finished laughing over the hyperbole - it was good to hear him laughing again - signed it off with one of the names they’d agreed on. 

Anders gives him a shopping list. Grain alcohol and more flasks. A few herbs that he only needs in small amounts and that won’t be ready to be gathered until later in the year. And bread. Fresh bread. For the love of Andraste, some fresh bread and some butter.

“Check to see what kinds of tinctures and poultices the poor may need,” Anders whispers in his ear as he kisses him goodbye. “Maybe, um, perhaps in the alienage.”

Unlike Lothering, South Reach recovered from the Blight. If it doesn’t look quite as busy, quite as bustling as before, Adrian attributes it to the years of running around the cramped warrens of Kirkwall. The bookseller is easy enough to find. He walks past it a couple of times, collecting other odds and ends, stopping off at the Chantry and leaving a small offering. Only then does he return to the rundown bookshop near the alienage.

“Sirrah?” The shopkeep seems surprised when he opens the door.

“I was wondering if you had any of Varric Tethras’ novels?”

It’s a dance of words next. A series of inquiries about made up titles, until the contact has confirmed that whoever he is, he does have some connection to Varric. Adrian gives the elf his letter, and purchases a handful of books, ones he thinks that Anders will enjoy. Before he leaves, he quietly asks the name of the elders in the alienage, who might accept a donation and make sure those who needed the assistance received it.

He stays the night in a rough hostel, hoping to afford the suggestion that he has coin for more than supplies. No one will bother him, not with the knives that he keeps his hands for the entire night. 

The next day Adrian makes a few other purchasing, doing one better than fresh butter. A docile nanny goat, with a kid bouncing behind her. He drapes extra packs over her back and cinches a belt around her ribs to hold them in place. She gives him more space to carry things, indulgent things. Like the books, and a leg of smoked ham, and a cage with three young hens. They can look forward to eggs to go with the goat milk will be welcome. 

He picks flowers as he hikes back to the cabin, following a circuitous route, allowing the nanny and the kid to graze as they please. It's no trouble to weave the flowers together as he walks, and add in the smaller crocuses whose delicate stems would snap if braided directly. 

Adrian hides the flower crown when he’s closer to the cabin. Anders is stripped down to his shirtsleeves when he arrives, digging up a space for a garden to be planted. He suspects the work could be done with magic, but something about physical labor appeals to Anders when he’s anxious. And he’s anxious anytime that Adrian is gone.

“A goat?” Anders kneels down in front of the animal and scratches her floppy ears with a laugh. The kid butts his head against Anders' leg. He scoops it up and cooes over the baby animal. 

“Milk. Butter. Cheese.” Any notion of slaughtering the kid for meat is gone now. _A kitten._ Adrian thinks belatedly. _I should have brought him a kitten._

Sobaka sniffs at the goats and whines. “Your job is to keep them safe, girl.” She looks from Adrian and back to the goats before barking in affirmation. Adrian had never let the jabs in Kirkwall about Fereldens and their dogs bother him. He only felt sorry that the Free Marchers had to do without.

Anders sets the kid back down in the grass and wipes the sweat off his forehead. He gets to his feet and wipes his hands on his trousers. “Learn anything interesting, love?”

“Things are about the same as they were in the fall. Nothing to speak of happened over the winter.”

“Mmm.” Anders presses his forehead to Adrian’s. “Not surprising.”

“I made you something.” Adrian reaches into his jacket and pulls out the rope of flowers, holding it between for long enough for Anders to see it before draping the chain over his head. “First time I saw enough flowers in bloom.”

“Oh.” Anders reaches up and touches the petals hanging about at his temple. “You remembered.”

“I promised.” Adrian slides his hands around Anders’ waist, pulls him close, and leans his head on his shoulder. “Didn’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised - flower crowns!


	4. Angle of Depression

It only takes Anders a couple of weeks to fill the flasks that Hawke brought back for him. The herbs that form the basis of most curative potions are common enough in the spring, and Adrian had done a good job at acquiring dried versions of the fall harvested or more uncommon herbs that were needed in supplemental quantities. 

The walks in the forest for more herbs, and rigging together a distillation apparatus, and setting up extractions is something to get out of bed for at any rate. Anders thinks that he slept through most of the winter, at least when Hawke was with him. The kind of deep, long sleep that leaves him unsure of what is dream and what is reality when he finally wakes with an aching head. The Kirkwall Chantry fell, and his father stepped out from the flames, ready to cuff him across the face. The Architect spoke of liberating his brethren, asking Anders to help him end the Blights, until the brood mother's tentacles burst through the stone of the Deep Roads to crush him. Karl held his head in his lap and stroked his face and told him that it was alright, that he was free now, and Anders wasn't sure which of them he referred to. He was a boy again, just entering the Circle, being dressed down by an Templar for some stupid infraction, and when the Templar lifted his helm, it was Justice's face looking back at him.

And even with those dreams, he still flung his arm over his eyes when Hawke tried to coax him out of bed, mumbled something, and rolled over. Not very good company. He isn't sure how or why Hawke put up with him. But he did, finally dragging Anders out of bed and convincing him to wash his face, eat something, play a round or two of cards, go outside for a bit and play fetch with Sobaka.

He feels a little better now that he has potions to brew. Ones that he can give away. A goal. Those are important.

Hawke doesn’t react well when Anders proposes taking the extra potions and poultices he’s made to South Reach. Not that he reacts badly, but it’s not the _sure, let’s go_ that Anders was hoping for.

“It’s easy enough for me to take them. Besides -” Adrian lifts the mug he’s holding with an easy smile. “I need to get more coffee anyway. Got spoiled again already.”

"'Dri, I feel trapped." It's as gentle a way to frame it as Anders can manage. Hawke doesn't understand. Not entirely. He says that it’s safer here, and that’s true, but . . . safety. The Templars would say that too. Safer. The Circles kept the mages safe from people who feared them. All they needed to do was stay inside. Stay locked away. “I feel like I _can’t_ leave here.”

Adrian's eyebrows lift, then knit together as the understanding hits him. "Anders, I'm sorry, I should have realized -"

"You didn't." Anders drops his shoulders and rests his hands on the table. "It's okay. I'd like for you to come with me, but I'll go without you."

"Anders." Hawke faces him, leaning back against the table. "Do you even know the way? I mean, of course -"

"Walk long enough and you always run into some sort of town or another." Or a Templar.

Hawke brushes his fingers over Anders' knuckles. Anders can feel himself starting to give in, maybe he's not ready to leave without Hawke, even if he knows that he'll come right back. Just a day or so, to prove that he could walk away from the cabin.

"I'll leave my staff behind. And these aren't magic potions, just herbs. No one needs to know I'm even a mage." Anders takes the mug from Hawke and drinks part of the bitter black coffee before giving it back. "If any of this helps someone, Adrian... I need to do something good again." Anders needs to believe that, even more than he needs to believe that he's still free, still able to come and go.

Hawke lifts his hand and cups Anders' face. "You will, Anders." His hand slides to the back of Anders' head and pulls him down until their lips meet. 

"I'm sorry, love. I never... I wanted you. I didn't want this for you."

"Anders, I made my choice. Years ago." Hawke stands and wraps his arms around Anders' shoulders, rocks his weight back and forth from one foot to the other as he presses their cheeks together. "I'm not changing my mind."

"I wish you had chosen differently. Told me to leave, fucked me and thrown me out that first time... You wouldn't be in this mess now."

"No."

"You _should_ have." He can feel the tears building behind his eyes, and he hates himself a little more because those will Hawke. "The first time I asked you for something, when I asked for help with Karl - you should have told me no."

Adrian's hands move, one up and down Anders' spine, the other smoothing his hair. "Shh... I chose you. I choose you." Hawke tugs him across the room, sits him down on the bed, wraps a blanket tight around his shoulders, and holds him against his chest.

Anders doesn't deserve this.

"You should have killed me. After what... What I did. It was necessary." He has to believe that. The Chantry's fiction couldn't continue. "But killing me would have been an act of justice."

"I could never have killed you." Hawke's hands move, smooth Anders' hair, hold him tight. 

"But it would have been right, it would have been just." _It would have been so much easier. I wouldn't have had to live with this._

"I didn't act from a sense of justice, Anders. I acted out of love." Adrian snaps and pushes Anders' shoulders, just far enough anyway for them to look in each other’s eyes. "Can't you understand that? Can't you understand what it would have done to me?" He presses their foreheads together. "I love you. Why can't you believe me?"

Anders is sobbing hard enough now that he can barely breath. Love. Love. Love. Hawke has lost so many of the people that he loved. Good people. Who deserved to be loved. Maybe Anders did once? But now? And still Hawke can't let go.

His legs are giving out beneath him, and Adrian slowly lowers both of them onto the floor. He's still talking, but Anders can't hear what he's saying. His tone changes to the one he uses to give Sobaka commands, and Anders feels the dog's wet nose press against his cheek before Adrian is wrapping him up tight in a blanket.

It's replaying in his mind again. The way the flames shot up into the night sky. Adrian's horrified expression as he put together what Anders had done - what Anders had roped him into. No, Hawke shouldn't love him still. Never should have in the first place.

Yet he's here, in the middle of nowhere, stroking Anders' back and murmuring something in his ear. Anders falls asleep with Hawke holding him. It's the closest he's felt to actually being safe since he was twelve years old.

* * *

Anders doesn't even look fully at peace when he's asleep.

_How could I ever harm you?_

Except Hawke had harmed Anders. He'd dragged him along to the Deep Roads not just once, but twice, even though he knew Anders loathed them even more than Varric. The first time he hadn't understood about the Grey Wardens, the Taint, how Anders could feel the darkspawn and hear the old gods. He should have understood when he heard ragged breathing from Anders' pallet while the rest of them tried to sleep, their sense of day and night destroyed by weeks in the darkness. Comprehended when he shook Anders' shoulder and the other man bolted upright and clung to him for dear life. _I can hear them! I can still hear them. Even when I'm alone._

Varric and Bethany had the courtesy to not say anything when they woke up to find him curled around Anders. The mage had kept a death grip on his arm even while he slept.

Afterward, once Bethany was one of the Grey Wardens, saved by the same things that ensnared Anders, certainly he should have understood. How Justice sent him to pieces when faced with Ser Alrick, the embodiment of everything that threatened Anders' very sense of being, protecting him, only to leave him more shattered in the aftermath.

He should have left Anders behind when the Carta hideout in the Vinmarks led into the Deep Road and later to Corypheus. But no, he selfishly wanted his lover with him, guarding his back, and so they went into the Deep Roads, into the dark, facing down the specter of the Calling from which no Warden or ex-Warden could run.

He _had_ put a knife in Anders' back. Those terrifying minutes when Justice had taken over his lover and was set on killing the rest of them, interpreting them as the source of the song threatening what limited control he had. Adrian took down the shades Justice summoned, tried to avoid Anders, praying that he'd snap out of it before Fenris got too sword happy. But then, crackling with blue energy, Anders turned his attack on Adrian.

He fell back at first, stunned, then instinct took him over just as completely as Justice had claimed Anders, and he side stepped around his assailant with both knives raised.

Merrill lifted them into the air with one of her twisting, thorny vines and slammed them into the floor before it went further.

When Adrian came around Anders was healing the scratches on his face and _thanking_ him!

_I couldn't have lived with myself. If you had died then. Janeka could have had however much blood she wanted._

_How could you ask me to do that again?_


	5. Just the Basic Facts.  Can You Show Me Where It Hurts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title, obviously, from Pink Floyd, "Comfortably Numb"

Anders and Hawke both keep their hoods up when they arrive at South Reach; Anders pulls his a bit lower over his eyes as the number of people in the streets begins to increase. They part ways at the elven bookseller Varric uses for a contact, and Anders promises Hawke not to leave the alienage, or to be nearby if the elder refuses his offer. Adrian gives him quick directions for the one or two turns he’ll need to get to the alienage and lets him go with a quick kiss on the cheek.  _ Don’t do anything stupid. _

Inside, a letter and small package wait for Hawke. Varric responded.

The bookseller has a comfortable chair by a sunny window for customer’s to peruse books, and Hawke sits down to break the seal and glance over the contents. The letter is written in both dwarven script and one of a handful of codes he and Varric worked out before he fled Kirkwall. 

He settles in to decode it. Anders should be safe enough, as long as no wild ideas strike his fancy. When Hawke scouted the mood in the alienage before, the elves there seemed decidedly disinclined to support the Templars. And with any luck word of the impressive amount of gold Sebastian is offering for Anders' head hasn't reached here. Adrian wouldn't blame anyone living in the poverty of the alienage for being tempted.

Adrian will still kill them if they act on it. Or at least, make it very clear that he is willing to kill them.

Varric’s still in Kirkwall, trying to help get the city back in order or, at least, keep  _ The Hanged Man _ open. He's heard multiple rumors about the different places Hawke is hiding. And started a few himself. 

The Circles are in open rebellion now. The Libertarians took control of the Ferelden Circle and have welcomed any apostates who make it there. If the Queen of Ferelden hasn't officially condoned it, she hasn't done anything to stop it either. Weakening the Chantry and the Templars weakens Orlais, and Anora has never ceased to be her father's daughter. The Templars are fracturing between those who support Divine Justina’s attempts to broker a peace and a faction who want to carry out the Rite of Annulment on the Ferelden Circle at minimum, and every Circle in Thedas. Varric has heard disturbing rumors about the second group seeking out and using Red Lyrium, despite warnings of what it had done to Meredith.

Orana appreciates the charm. Varric has hired her to keep his actual house. The one that he doesn't live in, so she essentially has the place to herself. She's starting to accept that she has time and coin to do things purely because she wants to. Gardening, it seems. She asked him to have a greenhouse installed so that she could grow flowers from Tevinter that required a warmer environment.

Bethany contacted Varric recently. The Grey Wardens are pulling back to the west - some maker forsaken desert. But she's been sent on a mission to the Deep Roads. Perhaps don't be surprised if she pops up, so to speak.

Adrian throws his head back and covers his eyes with his arm for a moment when he reads those words. He wants to see Bethany - of course, he does. And he isn't surprised that she suspects he'll be here.

He hopes that any other Wardens with her can be trusted with secrets as well. They tend to keep their own counsel, but it’s rarely clear to anyone else just what intention the Wardens have between Blights.

He tucks the paper away in his shirt and carefully slices open the package with the small strapped to his arm. Innocuous items. A letter of credit he can exchange with at any dwarven merchants’ guild. A box of confections from a seller in Kirkwall that he had favored. And carefully wrapped in tissue paper, the embroidered pillowcase Anders’ mother had given him when he was hauled off to the Circle.

Hawke unfolds the worn fabric carefully and spreads it out in his lap, tracing his fingertips over the faded geometric patterns. When he closes his eyes, he can see Anders trying to get Varric to take it, before... before everything blew up. He should  _ known _ then. Known that something was terribly, horribly wrong. He should have known before then. Watching Anders writing through the night like - like a man possessed. The way he forgot to eat - not that he had ever been good about remembering to eat... but how it became worse and worse...

_ I failed you, love. _

Adrian closes his eyes and leans his eye back again, letting the sunlight wash over him. They left Kirkwall with the clothes on their back and not much else. Anything of sentimental value had been quickly packed up and left in Varric’s care at that time. Isabela never even brought the ship she bought the proceeds from that damned Qunari book into the harbor. A surly looking pirate rowed them out from a cove on the Wounded Coast.

Isabela almost looked abashed when Hawke swung his legs over onto the deck of the  _ Siren’s Return _ . But her mouth curved into her customary smirk when he deadpanned that  _ this makes us even, I suppose _ , and she hugged him tight. Anders grinned and complimented her new hat, before she pulled both of them into her quarters for rum and a few hands of Wicked Grace.

The cover is still in his lap when he opens his eyes. There’s a scrawled note tucked inside.  _ Had to take the stuffing out to send it. Hope Blondie doesn’t mind too much.  _

* * *

Anders had only vaguely heard of the alienages before the first time he ran away from the Circle. The few elves in the Ferelden circle had been there since they were little children. They didn't remember. Didn't tell stories about home or family to tell. Or to keep secret, the way that Anders refused to speak, keeping his memories of his mother to himself, thanking Andraste that he had any. Some of the other apprentices didn't... The Templars found them too young. 

_ Found this one too late. He'll never adjust, Irving.  _

_ Gregoire, give him a chance. He's still so young. _

And so Anders hadn't heard of tiny apartments that threatened to fall down, how technically, an elf could leave, if they found the coin and a shemlin who would sell them a property. But it wouldn't last. It would go up in a night of fire, and they'd be right back where they started. Not so different from the Circle. 

Except the Circle had sturdy walls and ceilings that didn't leak. Three meals a day and a comfortable enough bed to oneself. Few in the alienages had such things. And the Chantry looked away and did nothing. Anders was nearly thirty before Justice talked him out of being entirely self centered. He's old enough now to take off the blinders that had limited his focus on the injustice of the Circle. There are so many other wrongs about which the Chantry chose to sit on the fence.

_ There's no end to what mortals will do to each other in their greed.  _

Anders tries to ignore the growl in the back of his head. No. No end. Mages. Elves. Humans with the bad luck of being born poor or in an area where darkspawn broke through the earth. Or where a Chantry erupted because holding together an unjust system couldn't be allowed to stand. Or in Tevinter without magic or riches...

The Templars had taken Anders' blood, locked him in the dark, and threatened him with worse than death. They had done that to thousands of children. They'd stolen Karl's connection to the Fade, his ability to dream, to desire. And magisters burned lyrium through Fenris' body, sacrificing their slaves for power. The equations didn't balance. The acts didn't even out. Nothing ever does, nothing ever will.

_ Perhaps there can only be justice when none of your kind remain. _

_ Shut up. Shut up.  _ He stops in the shade of a wall and tries to focus, counting the beads on a bracelet as they slip through his fingers. "Shut up!" He speaks the last aloud and slams his fist into the wall, grateful that Adrian isn't here to see how blood smears across the stone.  _ You've said enough. I can't right every wrong. _ He stops talking to himself for a moment and heals his busted knuckles.  _ And I only seem to create more wrongs when I try. But at least, I can help someone today. _

Justice seems satisfied by that. For the moment, at any rate.

The elder is not hard to find, once he's in the alienage. She's sitting in the sun with a group of children, helping them practice their letters on slates or in the dirt. Her eyebrows raise when he asks to speak with her, and a girl helps her up, fetches her walking stick.

"Young man?"

Young. Anders hasn't been young in years. Young and selfish and thoughtless. He misses those days sometimes. Wine, women, men, naughty tricks with electricity. A healer hanging around brothels always has plenty of coins come his way as well.

Those days are long gone. He bows his head to the elder, acknowledging her authority here. "I would like to give you some things. For the people here. Medicines." He unslings the bag from his shoulder and holds it out to her.

"And where did you come by these?"

"I'm a healer, or I was. Herbs are free in the forest."

"And you offer this bounty to us, instead of Andraste?"

"Yes. I would rather not get too close to the Chantry." He laughs. Perhaps too loud and long. "The Chantry agrees."

"Hmm." She looks him up and down then takes the bag from him, glances inside and nods. "A healer. And what would you charge, to look at some of my people here?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I..." Anders runs a hand through his hair. "My needs are met."

"And yet you do need something."

_ Atonement. _ He wants to say the word, but then she might ask for what. And how could he explain? "I need to do something good for someone."

"Come."

There's a man with a broken leg that has never set properly - easy enough to coax the bones back where they should be with magic. If an eyebrow or two arches at that no one says anything. It's a risk, and Adrian might not approve once he hears of it, but it's worth it. An old, wizened woman for whom he can't do much other than write out the ingredients for a tisane that will help her pain. And finally an infant with a wheezing cough, bluish skin, and a frantic mother. 

"How long has he been like this?" Anders cradles the child against his chest and carefully lays his fingers on the fragile neck, feeling the fluttering heart.  _ Poor little one. And his poor mother. Mama looked like that when they came to take me away. _

"A little over a week now."

"Are there others?" He asks as the babe tries to drag a breath past the congestion in his lungs.

"A few of the other children, but they recovered. Breathing in steam helped them, but this one..."

"It's worse in infants. This kind of illness."

"Can you help him? He's struggling to eat now. I'm so scared he won't make it."

"Yes." He lays the infant down on the low bed and sits beside him, unwraps the blankets and runs his fingers up and down the boy's chest. He's hot to the touch, a tiny body desperately trying to fight off the illness. Anders closes his eyes. These are the hardest cases to heal, nothing obviously wrong, and yet everything wrong. He wishes they had brought the boy first, healing that leg has already drained him.

_ Justice? _

_ This is only nature. The child isn't our concern. _

_ If his mother wasn't poor, wasn't an elf, would he be suffering like this? _

There's something like a sigh in the back of his mind as Justice acquiesces. Power floods through him and into the little body, clearing the heat from his blood and phlegm from his lungs, and Anders hears a loud wail as his vision goes fuzzy, and he slumps against the wall.

"Oh!" The mother scoops the baby up and kisses the top of his downy head, bouncing him up and down until he quiets. "Thank you."

"You're... you're welcome." Anders rubs his temples and prays to Andraste that either his skin and eyes didn't crackle blue or that no one noticed. But even if they did, it wouldn't matter so much now if they handed him over to the Chantry and the Templars.

_ One life against hundreds. _

_ Nothing ever evens out. _

"Here, lad." The elder presses a cup into his hand. "Drink some water. Then come sit in the sun with me and rest."

* * *

Of all scenarios Adrian had anticipated, he had not expected to find Anders sitting under the Vhenadhal in the alienage, surrounded by a small flock of elven children. He's telling them a story, emphasizing plot points with bold gestures of his hands.

"You were the one asking around a few weeks ago. About who was in charge here. Who could accept things on behalf of the entire alienages."

"Yes, mistress."

"He is your friend?"

"More than."

"He's kind." The elder approached Adrian's side and spoke softly. "In his heart."

"He is."

"But the fear in him overshadows that. And guilt."

Hawke's shoulders stiffen and he remains silent.

"I do not wish to know his name, and I will forget that he was here and forget how several of my charges have recovered from illnesses I despaired over. But I will leave an offering at the tree tonight for forgotten people and things."

"I... Thank you."

Anders catches Hawke’s eye and nods when he sees him, but he finishes his story before lifting the little girl that had climbed up on him during a scary part out of his lap, and dusting off his clothes.

"Adrian." He pulls Hawke close and claps him on the back. Anders still has that wild look in his eyes, but it's a little softer. "It's not right either. How the elves are treated, in the cities, even if they can leave..."

"You can't remake the world."

"I... I know. But a little good. It's not enough. It never will be. It never would have been."

"C'mere." Adrian throws his arm around Anders' shoulders and pulls his head to his chest. "No philosophy right now, love. We’re going to grab a room for the night, and you are going to at least  _ try _ to sleep."  _ If you can. If Varric’s gift doesn’t upset you as much as I know you’ll be glad to have it back. _

"Mmph."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whelp.... the plot bunnies are breeding...


	6. Angle of Elevation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff? Is it though....

It's the light. Or that's what Anders believes. Every year, the beginning of summer, like clockwork. He can't sleep, not even when it's dark, because it's light out, finally light, and something in him doesn't know what to do with all that light. 

He's building a fence around the garden. It's not much, just sticks driven into the ground, with others woven between them. He doubts it'll keep anything out. But it's something to do to keep his hands busy, trimming thin saplings and branches with a small knife and twisting them into a barrier.

Karl used to stay up with him. As long as he could, which wasn't that long. Or at least it didn't seem like so long, not when time had become less real than a colorful wisp summoned by an apprentice. He'd brew coffee for himself and refuse to let Anders have any because he "didn't need the help." And then eventually, kind, motherly Wynne would insist that Karl sleep, and she'd walk with Anders in the garden and tell him which herbs were good for healing and which were good for other things, and she always looked so worried as she did, because the Templars were already whispering the word tranquil. His mother looked at him like that. Worried.

_ Where is Wynne? The last time they met she was heading for some meeting with the college of Magi. _

In Kirkwall, on nights like these, he'd spend hours writing in the library of Hawke's mansion, or pace the downstairs rooms. Sometimes Sandal would be awake at odd times, and they'd interact a bit. He'd try to get enough information from the boy to understand how he enchanted objects. The only thing that ever became clear was that Anders was incredibly grateful to not be able to enchant. Although, Sandal seemed happy enough, especially when Anders would stop writing and play checkers or knucklebones with him until the sun came up. A good lad. Hope he's well.

Anders has paper again now. Ink. He’s sure he’ll pick up a quill eventually, at some point, make some notes at least.

He’s scared of what he’ll write.

Before Hawke, when he couldn't sleep, he'd leave the lamps outside the clinic burning and wait for some poor sodding fool to drag themselves in - fresh from a knife fight and relieved that the lamps were burning. Or he'd go walk the docks or the red lantern district. Enough people knew him, or knew of him, someone would ask to come check on their grandmother or nephew. Or invite him for a drink to thank him for one thing or another, and - at the beginning of summer - not even Justice grumbling in the back of his head about frivolity and too much frivolity could stop him. Or maybe he'd find someone to fight, and he wouldn't even use magic to win, because it felt too good to take a punch or to bust his knuckles throwing one. Or someone would come along who'd want to fuck him, call him handsome -  _ Andraste's tits, you're good with you tongue, Anders _ \- that also felt good. Really good.

"Anders, love." Adrian's hands close around his shoulders. "It's been an hour, at least, since the sun's gone down."

_ Not as good as Hawke. No one felt as good as Hawke. _

"The moon's near full. I've plenty of light."

"You haven't eaten yet either."

"Mmmm." He writes the sweat off his face with the back of his arm. "Not really hungry. I'll get something later."

"Anders."

"What, Adrian?" He doesn't mean to sound snappish. Dammit, why can't he control that? You'd think after years upon years of this, he'd have figured out some way to not oscillate between clown and cranky bitch.

"You didn't eat anything at midday either. Your cheeks are getting hollow again, like when... If I had been paying attention then -"

Anders decides to ignore the comment on his state in Kirkwall. It wouldn't have changed anything. Adrian couldn't have stopped the engine that was driving him then, anymore than Anders could stop it now. "Just let me finish this. Then I'll eat whatever you tell me to, I promise." 

"And sleep? Lay down, at least." Hawke pushes aside his hair and kisses the back of his neck. Any irritation from a moment ago flees, and Anders wishes that he could purr like a cat under the caresses. 

"If you want me to stay in bed, love, you might have to tie me there."

Adrian laughs at the comment.  _ Maker! _ He loves Adrian's laugh. His hands slide down Anders' chest, fingertips slipping under the waistband of his pants. "I can make that happen."

"Can you?" Anders lets himself fall back, counting on Hawke to catch him.

"Oh yes. Very deft hands after all."

"Mmmm..." Anders drops the sticks he's holding and shifts his weight back to the balls of his feet, dashing for the house in a wild burst of energy. "I want wine!" Hawke brought some back the other day. Sweet, fruit wine. Liquid summer.

He shouldn't drink. Not when he's like this. It makes everything better. And everything worse. 

Adrian moves fast - so fast, how does he do that? - catches his wrist, and spins him into a kiss. "More sex, less alcohol?"

Anders giggles like a mad child and kisses him back, kisses his love back, because he has him here, his love. And he's here, and at least for the moment, everything is lovely, and there's nothing besides this moment. "Yes. Yes. Always yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I'm still pissed that there isn't an angle of hypomania.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I have ideas for where this is going, but I love to hear your thoughts. If you want to say hi, comment or feel free to hit me up on tumblr. I'm [aria-i-adagio](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/) there.


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